The Song of Bernadette
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: 1986. Sister Julienne is very ill, and needs her daughter. Shulienne.


**This is by far the most upsetting thing I can remember having written, so it's a T. For really-quite-tremendous.**

**1986.**

She had fallen asleep in the middle of the day with the radio on; it had been a difficult morning. The previous night had been almost sleepless and she had woken at eight from a fitful sleep with a pain in her side. Then she had been sick, taken some pain killers which numbed the pain but made her feel nauseous.

She prayed fervently to be able to forget about all of these awful feelings. She had long since stopped praying for them to be taken away.

In the end the other nuns had taken her back up to her room. She knew she could not detain them from their work, but nor did she want to be left alone by herself with this pain. She asked for them to turn the wireless on for her and then that they should go. She even managed half an encouraging smile, and kept it there until the younger sisters had left the room. The clock was in her line of vision, but it was hours until Shelagh would get here. Shivering a little, wrapping her arms and blanket more tightly around herself, she tried to settle down comfortably into her bed.

It shouldn't surprise her that she was old and ill. She had seen it happen to countless people, why not to her too? She had never thought about growing old, there had always been too much to do. And then it had just happened. She hated having to be looked after, she knew it was necessary, but she hated it all the same. Sister Evangelina knew that, and it was always done so tactfully, so gently, but still, that almost made it worse.

She thought she understood now, as she admitted she had never really done at the time, how it had been for Sister Monica Joan; the gradual loss of capability, the increase in dependence, the endless discomfort and boredom. Except it was Sister Monica Joan's mind that let her down, as opposed to her body. She wondered which was worse. Formally, she would have said the mind, but if it is worse than this, then it must be unendurable. Perhaps it is. It is her mind that is keeping her alive now.

When she thanks God now it is for the ability to briefly lose herself in her memories. And oh, what memories! She remembers cycling through Poplar, under the lilac trees after it had rained; she remembers helping people; she remembers the contentment in a house when a newborn had been safely delivered. She remembers the triumph of the successful petition to save Nonnatus House; she remembers the holiday she and Sister Evangelina once took to Brighton when they got stuck in a paddle boat that wouldn't paddle; she remembers the day she and Mrs B. negotiated the back-up cake plan for when Sister Monica Joan got peckish; she remembers going to The Noakes' anniversary party at their new home with the baby in his crib in the corner. She remembers the Turners' wedding day, placing Shelagh's hand in Patrick's, waving and crying as they drove off in his car; she remembers when Ruth, their little girl was born, and Cynthia handing her to her first to give to Shelagh. She remembers very clearly that, though her future looks grim, the Lord blessed her with the most wonderful past.

She is crying, she knows, but she is also exhausted; and she slumps asleep with relative ease after the long and empty hours of the night.

When she awakes, the wireless is still on. But she is no longer alone.

Shelagh is sitting in the chair by her bedside, reading a book. It takes Sister Julienne a moment to take in what is different about her. She is not dressed smartly like usual, she is wearing what look like old travelling clothes; she glances to the floor and sees a suitcase on the floor by the chair. She feels her mouth fall open, but she cannot speak.

Shelagh has seen that she is awake, and smiles at her, putting her book down.

"Sister, I've got something to tell you," she tells her kindly, in her beautiful soft voice.

"Don't leave me," is all Sister Julienne can say. She knows she sounds helpless, she is helpless, "I can't go on without you. I don't want to."

A frown creases Shelagh's brow, an unbearable look of sadness and pity. Sister Julienne has to look away, staring at the ceiling. She feels Shelagh's hand grasp hers where it lies on top of the blanket. She takes a breath as if about to speak, but she cuts her off.

"I know there isn't anything to keep you here now," she tells her quietly, her voice almost choked with tears, "I know you'll want to move on away from your husband's memory and start a new somewhere... But, please, Shelagh... I know haven't got long. I can't do it without you."

"Shh," Shelagh shushes her, brushing her thumb over the back of Julienne's hand to soothe her, "I'm not going anywhere, Sister. I'm coming home."

Sister Julienne can hardly speak; with shock, with gladness, with relief.

"I've spoken to Sister Evangelina," she told her, "She has told me that I can have my old room back. I'm going to live here and look after you, Sister. Of course there's something to keep me here. If my mother had lived I couldn't have left her like this. So why should I leave you?"

Julienne closed her eyes. This was too much. Shelagh's hand still rested on top of hers. Carefully, weakly, Julienne slipped her hand out from under Shelagh's, took it in hers, and drew it to her lips, kissing her fingers.

Shelagh watched her; her blue eyes full of tears, her lip bitten firmly and trembling.

"Daughter," Sister Julienne whispered. It was not strange to whisper this to a woman well into her fifties. She would always be her little girl, though she was a mother herself.

"Mother," Shelagh murmured in reply, and then, a moment later, "It shouldn't be this way. You're the strong one."

"I'm not," Julienne replied, "I only tried to be strong for you."

"And you _were_," Shelagh told her, "You were my strength. You took care of me. I won't let you down now. I will always be here for you."

Julienne gave her a weak but at the same time so very strong smile.

"And that is the very best gift that the Lord could have given me," Julienne whispered in reply.

Their hands were still holding on to one another, and neither felt the compulsion to break it. Neither ever would, or could. If it had to end, the end was now bearable. Neither were alone now, or ever would be. They were unbreakable.

They sat there in silence for a few moments.

"You taught me what it is to love, Sister," Shelagh replied, "And now I will love you as you have always deserved."

They were unbreakable. Love had returned full circle and they were truly parts of each other.

They were silent but the radio played on, the song making their eyes meet in surprise, and making their tears both finally fall in earnest:

**So many hearts I find, broke like yours and mine,**

**Torn by what we've done and can't undo.**

**I just want to hold you, come on let me hold you,**

**Like Bernadette would do. **

**End.**

**Please review if you have the time.**


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